


Heavy

by placentalmammal



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Love Triangles, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 23:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11069496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: Adaire's in love with Hella, Hella's sleeping with Hadrian, and Throndir just wants everybody to get along.





	Heavy

**Author's Note:**

> tfw ur best friend/the love of your life is hooking up with a clownshoes paladin and ends up pregnant
> 
> I had a really intense, weird dream and wrote 3k words of pure id and sadness. Takes place immediately after Winter in Hieron 22: A Holy Place, not canon to anything after that point. Obviously. cw for emotional incompetence, drunkenness, and also vomiting.
> 
> ETA: I was going through my files and the word doc for this was saved as 'mtv drama.doc' and I think you all deserve to know that

It’s dark when they depart from the Church of the Dark Sun, but it is not night. The sky is empty, a stage laid bare, but the streets are alight with a soft, silvery glow all their own. The cobblestones and alleyways shine with the light of the absent stars, illuminating their path back to the Topgallant. As they walk, they break off into pairs: Hadrian and Alyosha in the lead, Kodiak and Throndir at their heels, Hella and Adaire half a block behind.

Hella broods and Adaire watches her and pretends that she isn’t. The soft, pale light does incredible things to her dark eyes and red hair; she is a vision in silver. And for the past few days, she has been sullen and withdrawn. Adaire tries to start conversation, but Hella makes no sign of having heard her. She is a thousand miles away, adrift in her own thoughts.

By the time they reach the Topgallant, they have exchanged no more than fifty words. Hella ignores the barkeeper’s friendly wave and sits by herself in a darkened corner; Adaire and all the rest join her after they collected their own drinks.

Adaire finds herself opposite Hella, crushed between Throndir and Alyosha. Throndir was practically on top of Adaire, but he was too intent on his dog to take notice of her discomfort: Kodiak resented being made to sit _under_ the table when all the rest of them got to sit _at_ the table. A sympathetic position from anyone but an oversized dog, whose wagging tail and long snout were a liability in close quarters. After much coaxing, Kodiak finally settles himself underneath the table, a wounded look in his brown eyes. He sits with his head in Adaire’s lap, pointedly snubbing Throndir.

Sighing, Adaire reaches down and scratches the dog behind the ears. She hasn’t got the heart to push Kodiak away, even though he's just going to shed all over her skirt.

The hour grows late as they talk and drink, dissecting the events of the day. At some point, a gang of musicians takes up residence beside the bar, playing enthusiastically but not skillfully. They listen for a while, and after a fashion, Aloysha drags a mortified Hadrian onto the crowded floor to teach him the steps to some rustic folk dance. Adaire watches and wonders whether Alyosha was looking for an opportunity to speak without fear of eavesdroppers or just an opportunity to hold Hadrian close. Perhaps both, judging by the way the exarch’s lips brush the other man’s ear.

Hella sits stone-faced and watches them, arms folded across her chest. She has not said a word since they all sat down, and Adaire is beginning to worry.

“They make a handsome couple,” she says, looking sidelong at Hella. “Does the priesthood practice free love, or is the exarch just a flirt?”

The other woman grunts non-committally. “Dunno.”

Another protracted silence. Adaire pets Kodiak, Throndir rearranges the glasses on the table, and Hella scowls. The band starts in on a lively jig and the crowd gets rowdier, pressing in close around the stage to call out requests and tip coins into an open violin case. It is _very_ warm inside the Topgallant, and Adaire finds herself loosening her collar as she drains the last of her perry. She smooths her skirt and flips her braid over her shoulder, but Hella isn’t even _looking_ , she’s staring out over the dance floor, jaw set like concrete.

Throndir begins to babble, chattering just to fill the silence. He talks about his childhood, the snows, his first few months in Velas. Adaire only half-listens, focusing instead on Hella. The other woman has never been talkative, but she usually has more to say than nothing.

“Are you feeling alright?” Adaire speaks softly, but her words cut clean through Throndir’s chatter.

Hella’s head snaps up. Her eyes are unfocused, somehow sad. “Fine,” she says, not meaning it. “Sour stomach, is all.”

“I’ve got teas that are good for that,” says Adaire. “Ginger and honey.”

“I’m fine.” Hella’s eyes drift back to the dance floor, to Hadrian and Alyosha. She chews her lower lip, swallows, drops her gaze to her lap.

Throndir starts in again. “Do you need anything? They’ve got food, I could get you something to eat.”

Hella cuts her eyes at him, mouth turned down in a scowl. “No,” she snaps. “I don’t need anything, I’m fine.”

Dejected, Throndir looks to Adaire for support. She shrugs and gestures to the bar. “Go get some water.”

“I _said_ I’m fine.” Throndir is already gone, shoving his way toward the bar. After a moment’s hesitation, Kodiak goes after him, leaving Adaire and Hella are alone together, _actually_ alone, for the first time that evening. Hella grinds her teeth, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“What’s gotten into you?” asks Adaire. “You’ve been acting weird all week.”

“No I haven't,” says Hella, and she can’t even bring herself to lie. “Why do you care so much, anyway?”

Adaire hesitates, a moment too long. A waiter passes with a platter of something hot and strong-smelling; the scent of grease and curry hangs in the air like perfume.

Hella blanches, and she’s gone so quick that Adaire doesn’t immediately register her absence. By the time she looks up, Hella is already halfway to the back door, leaving a trail of irate partiers in her wake. Adaire stands and hurries after her, tossing apologies over her shoulder as she cuts through the scattered crowd.

She finds Hella out back, braced against the wall, a puddle of sick at her feet. Her face gleams with sweat, red hair plastered to her forehead. As Adaire approaches, Hella heaves and bends double, ejecting a stream of watery vomit onto the ground. The sour smell of it carries across the yard, wrinkling Adaire’s nose as she takes up position behind Hella, holding her damp hair back off her face.

“There there,” she says, stroking Hella’s back. “Get it all up.”

Hella requires no coaxing. She vomits until she’s spitting bile, and then straightens up, scrubbing her clammy forehead with the back of her wrist. “Thank you,” she says weakly.

Her breath is rancid, but Adaire doesn’t say so. She takes Hella by the arm and steers her toward a bench—the Buoy is _lousy_ with benches, as if the city’s architects feared the populace would drop dead from exhaustion without someplace to sit every thirty feet—and sits down beside her. She thinks fleetingly of Throndir and the promised water. It’s just as well. Hella is uninterested in rehydrating, or even rinsing her mouth out. She sits still and silent, head between her knees, breathing raggedly.

They do not speak for a few minutes. Hella holds herself steady while Adaire strokes her hair and makes soothing noises. People pass by, but nobody gives them a second look. Hella’s hardly the first to puke in the gutter outside the Topgallant, and she won’t be the last.

Except Hella hasn’t had anything stronger than tea all day. And they all ate the same stew for dinner, so if Hella’s blowing chunks, they’re all going to come down with it sooner rather than later.

(Which is a terrible thought. Adaire doesn’t mind playing nursemaid to Hella, but if anyone expects her to baby Hadrian, she is going to smother them all in their sleep.)

Hella speaks, but her voice is muffled by her awkward position. Adaire catches a few stray phonemes. A soft ‘m’ and a hard ‘t,’ nothing comprehensible. It all sounds the same, coming from between Hella’s knees.

“What?”

When Hella looks up, her eyes are red and rimmed with tears. She repeats herself, but her voice is so hoarse that Adaire can’t make out a word of it. She opens her mouth the ask for a third repetition, but Hella interrupts, all but shouting—

“I’m pregnant.”

—which is not what Adaire was expecting. She sits back, reeling, and manages a weak, “come again?”

Hella scowls at her through gaps in her fingers. “You heard me,” she says. “I’m late and my tits hurt and I feel sick all the time.”

“I’m familiar with the condition,” says Adaire, more snappishly than she had intended. She cringes at her own tone, brushes a lock of hair back off Hella’s forehead. “Are you serious?” she says, more softly. “Are you really sure?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. She sniffs, then scrubs her eyes furiously with her fists. “I mean, I’m hoping I’m wrong, but—”

Adaire’s mind is running a thousand miles per hour. “It’s probably something you ate,” she says, and her voice rings false even to her own ears. “And you’re what, a couple days late? That’s nothing! You probably just got all irregular when we started traveling twelve hours a day.”

Hella shakes her head. “It’s been at least six weeks,” she says, her voice small and miserable. “It should have come and gone by now.”

“Okay.” Adaire takes a deep breath. “Okay, that’s bad, but.” She stops to try and collect her thoughts, then blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “Who’s the father?”

The look that crosses Hella’s face is one of pure anguish. “I can’t tell you,” she says. “You’d hate me.”

“I’m your friend,” says Adaire stoutly. She takes Hella’s hand and squeezes it. “I could never hate you.”

Hella shakes her head, and another bad idea drifts across Adaire’s mind. It’s out of her mouth before she can stop herself, and she cringes as she says it. “When you say ‘can’t,’ do you mean you don’t know?” Ice in her eyes, Hella takes her hand out of Adaire’s. She shrinks back, apologies dripping from her lips. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know what to say. But I _am_ your friend, and I don’t hate you, and whatever you decide to do, I’m going to be right beside you—“

“It’s Hadrian.”

“I—wait, what? _Hadrian?_ ”

Hella nods, eyes in her lap.

“ _Our_ Hadrian? Are you _sure_?”

Hella scowls at her. “Of course I am,” she snaps. “I’m not _that_ easy, Adaire.”

“I never said you were,” says Adaire, defensively. “It’s just—it’s a lot to take in. How long were the two of you…” she trails off. There’s no good way to end the sentence, especially when she’s got so much riding on the answer.

“Fucking?” Hella’s voice is steady, but she hides her face in her hands. Not ashamed, just overwhelmed. Adaire sympathizes.

“I was going to say ‘involved.’”

Hella sighs. “A while,” she says. “Since Rosemerrow.”

“Since—” Adaire chews her lips, mentally counting backward. She settles on a number, and It feels like a gut-punch. Hella and Hadrian, _involved_ for weeks. _Months_ , even. Not a one-night stand, not a moment of weakness, not something left safely in the past. And Hella said fuck _ing_ , not fuck _ed_.

A thorny knot of emotion rises in Adaire’s chest and she wants to cry. Now is not the time for her emotions, she knows this. All the same, her thoughts are absolutely unworthy. _If she needed sex, she could’ve come to me, doesn’t she know how I feel, doesn’t she care_ —

Envy tastes like gall, but Adaire swallows it down and refocuses all her attention on Hella. And if she takes pleasure in the fact that Hella told _her_ before she told Hadrian, then so what? She can’t help her feelings, and besides. In times like these, a body needs a friend more than they need a lover.

Hella sighs again. “I don’t why I did it,” she says. “He just—he seemed to sad, after the whole thing with Arrell. He needed someone, and—”

“What about his wife?” Her voice is a razor’s edge, and the hurt in Hella’s eyes makes Adaire feel about an eighth of an inch tall. She opens her mouth to apologize, but the other woman isn’t even looking at her.

“I _know_ ,” says Hella, deeply miserable. “But—but I needed someone too, and one thing lead to another. And you _know_ me, you _know_ I’m not strong enough to say ‘no,’ and I thought _he_ would be.” She swallows thickly. “He’s a paladin, and I’m just _me_.”

Adaire’s heart seizes up and she reaches out on instinct, one hand settling on Hella’s back. The other woman relaxes at her touch, tension draining from stiff muscles. She leans into Adaire, and they sit like that a moment, holding one another and watching the world pass by.

After a while, Hella speaks again. “He told me not to worry about falling pregnant. He said it was part of his vows, or something.” She laughs bitterly. “I was an idiot to trust him.”

 _You’re_ both _idiots_ , Adaire thinks. She sighs and pats Hella’s shoulder. “You’re not the first person to fall for ‘don’t worry about it, babe.’ My mom had six kids, I know how that one goes.”

“I should have come to you,” she says.

Adaire’s heart skips a beat. She bites her lip to keep herself from saying something stupid.

Hella sighs. “You make medicines. I should’ve come to you about it, and I could’ve prevented this whole thing.”

“What’s done is done.” Hella’s hair is soft underneath Adaire’s fingers, the texture fine and silky. “‘Should’ve’ isn’t going to do you any good now.”

“Even if I had,” says Hella, her voice thick with self-loathing, “what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey Adaire, give me something to stop me getting pregnant, because I’m fucking Hadrian and he’s already got a wife and kid.’”

“Um.”

Adaire’s head snaps up. Throndir is standing in front of them, eyes wide with alarm. He’s got a water gourd and Kodiak standing at his heels, whining anxiously and nosing at Throndir’s hand.

She’s on her feet in an instant, fists clenched at her sides. “How long have you been there?” she demands, advancing on Throndir. “What did you overhear?”

He’s six inches taller than she is, but he shrinks backward as though scalded, hands raised in surrender. “Nothing, I swear! I wasn’t eavesdropping, Adaire, I just—”

“I’m going to kill you,” says Adaire. She takes hold of his lapels and shakes him. “I am absolutely going to kill you.”

“Adaire—”

Kodiak barks, trying to insinuate himself between Adaire and Throndir. “I won’t say anything!” he says, cringing. “I promise I won’t say anything!”

“You’re dead meat.”

“Adaire!”

Throndir and Adaire turn in unison. Hella is on her feet, her face cast in shadow. She looks grey and grim and much older than her years, infinitely weary. “It’s alright,” she says quietly. “Let him go. That’s just one less person to lie to.”

He shrugs off Adaire’s hands and takes a step back, straightening his coat. He recovers from his initial shock with more race than Adaire would have given him credit for. “Congratulations,” he says, red-faced and uncertain. “When are you, um, due?”

“She’s not going to _keep_ it,” says Adaire, horrorstruck. She turns toward Hella. “I mean, you’re _not_ , are you?”

Hella opens her mouth and closes it again. “Dunno.”

“Hella—”

“I need to think about it,” she says defensively. She turns her face toward Adaire, eyes shining. She’s on the verge of tears. “It’s late, I just want to go to bed.”

Adaire softens at once. “Of course,” she says, and she wraps her arms around Hella. The other woman hugs back, face hidden in Adaire’s ruff. “Of course. Come on.”

Awkward and uncertain, Throndir reaches out and gingerly pats Hella’s shoulder. “I won’t tell anyone,” he says. “I know how to keep a secret.”

Kodiak whuffs in agreement and leans his head against Hella’s hip. Squaring her shoulders, she reaches down to pet him, tangling her fingers in the silky hair behind his ears. “Alright,” she says, and she takes a deep, steadying breath. “Alright.”

“We can talk tomorrow,” says Adaire. “Whatever you decide, you should tell Hadrian. He—he deserves to know. And I’m only saying that because he’s not going to try and guilt you into anything.” She sighs. “He’s decent like that.”

Throndir nods. “He’s a good person, and he cares about you. He’s going to support you, no matter what.” He leans in for a hug, and Hella goes stiff and awkwardly pats him on the back.

“Thanks.”

He pulls back, hands on Hella’s shoulder. “Kodiak could stay with you tonight, if you need someone to talk to.” He smiles brightly. “He’s a good listener.”

Hella swallows. “I think I’d like that,” she says. “Thank you.”

Somehow, Adaire and Throndir get Hella up to her room without running into Hadrian or Alyosha on the way. It’s a small miracle, for which Adaire offers a quiet prayer of thanksgiving. Not to Samothes—maybe to Severia. If the barkeeper’s account is reliable, Severia is the sort of goddess who understands about unplanned pregnancies and friends in crisis.

And about unrequited love.

They put Hella to bed with Kodiak and a cup of strong, sweet tea. (Just tea. Adaire offers Hella something to help her sleep, but she declines.) They close the door softly behind them, and then they make their way back down to the bar. It’s considerably emptier than it had been, virtually deserted. The barkeeper gives them a meaningful look. “Last call,” she says. “I’ve got to get myself to bed, here in a bit.”

“Give us a bottle of something strong and we’ll be out of your way.”

The barkeep clucks sympathetically. “Rough day?” she says, thunking an amber bottle and two glasses down onto the sticky surface of the bar.

Sighing, Adaire slides a handful of coins across the counter. “Something like that,” she says. “Rough evening, anyway.”

“I hear you, honey.” She gestures toward the stairs. “If you’re looking for them, your church boys went up to their rooms a while back. They had some kind of argument right after you ran out after your girl.” She grins, and her smile is an invitation to confess, to bare her heart.

Adaire declines. “Thanks for the tip.” She tucks the bottle under one arm and returns to the corner table. Throndir accepts the glass she hands him and drinks without hesitation, draining the glass before Adaire settles into her seat.

“Thirsty?” she says, mildly.

Throndir shrugs. “It’s been a long day,” he says. “I mean, even before the thing with Hella.”

The whiskey tastes like horse piss, but it’s exactly what Adaire needs. Coughing, she slams her empty glass down on the table, sloshing whiskey onto the sticky surface. She lets Throndir refill her glass, but she doesn’t drink. She frowns at the mostly-full bottle, arms folded across her chest.

“Are you doing alright?”

Adaire glances up. Throndir’s face is pinched with concern, thick brows drawn low over his eyes. He pushes her glass toward her and she takes a conciliatory sip. The second mouthful doesn’t go down any easier than the first, but by the, she’s used to the burn.

“I’m fine,” she says, not meaning it.

“You like her.”

Throndir speaks casually, as if he’s commenting on the weather and not giving voice to devastating truth that’s been eating Adaire from the inside out. He sips from his drink and looks steadily at her over the rim of his glass.

She bites her tongue, resisting the impulse to slap him. “Don’t.”

“Adaire—”

“I am not having this conversation with you.” She glares at him across the table, fist clenched around her half-empty glass. “I’m not.”

“This must be difficult for you,” he says, leaning forward in his seat. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

“Throndir, shut up.” He opens his mouth to speak, but she interrupts him with a gesture. “I already told you that I don’t want to talk about it.”

“If you change your mind, I’m here.”

She pushes back from the table in a sudden, violent gesture. “Don’t hold your breath,” she snaps. “You’re not my mother.”

“Just your friend,” he says, and he offers a wan smile.

Adaire harrumphs and stomps toward the stairs, swaying slightly. The room spins and dips around her, but she manages to hold back on tears until she reaches the security of her rented room. She fumbles with the deadbolt and collapses on the bed, self-loathing nipping at her heels. She pulls the blankets up over her head, and for the first time in years, Adaire lets herself cry.

It’s a purge—a violent sort of catharsis—but she feels no better when she’s done.


End file.
